Moving Forward
by Chelsie Dagger
Summary: Winter 1921- Multichapter speculation that picks up our story immediately following the events of the 2012 Christmas Special (yes, THAT one). Mostly Carson POV. Lots of our favorite butler interacting with everyone, especially our favorite housekeeper. Starts slow, but eventually gives good Chelsie. I do not own these lovely characters.
1. Chapter 1

_Is this what they call progress?_ Charles thought as he stood at the top of the rise, just off the side of the road looking down into the trees.

Tom and the tenants had organized very quickly. 5 horses had succeeded in righting Mr. Matthew's AC without too much trouble. Now, they were being repositioned to aid the tractor with the delicate, and considerably more dangerous, task of dragging it back up to the road.

Once on more even ground, the tractor would tow its offensive remains back to the Downton garages. Right now, they just wanted it out of sight. It was hoped that Lady Mary would be returning from the hospital later today, and Lord Grantham did not want his daughter confronted with the scene as it had been when He, Charles and Tom had arrived half an hour ago.

Watching the painstakingly slow progress of the horse teams up the side of the road, Charles huffed at the irony that the tractors were useless on the steeper grade just off the road. _Sometimes the old ways are best._

He listed in his mind all the ways technology had caused this poor lad's premature death. He traced its origin to the telephone. Ever since the contraption had been introduced in private homes, or more specifically, Downton Abbey, life had started to move too quickly for Charles Carson, stately butler of stately Downton Abbey. There was now an atmosphere of impatience in their lives. With this impatience, there came haste and chaos to replace the calm, deliberate progress of their lives. Speed and convenience were now the excuses given for lowered expectations of perfection.

Hubris had taken their previous heir,

_'Unsinkable', indeed._

Now impatience had taken their latest heir.

If looking for guilty technology, he had to look no further than the car itself. Though Charles grudgingly liked the automobile best of the rash of new inventions bent on disrupting his life, he had to lay some blame on the AC as well. The lorry driver had given Charles all the details of the accident and was now relaying the same information to the Constable. Charles told himself if Mr. Matthew had been driving a trap or cart, firstly, the horse would have had to slow down on a hill that steep. Secondly, the horse would have been paying more attention than Mr. Matthew and might have sensed another vehicle well before seeing it. Speed and distraction, two things Charles hated instinctively, were to blame.

_And the telephone. _

In the days where telegrams were the only means of high efficiency communication, Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew would never have gone to Scotland so late in her confinement. Mr. Matthew certainly would not have allowed Lady Mary to leave his sight without the assurance that he was just a phone call away. They'd have been together and the family would have received a nice telegram at Duneagle informing them of the arrival of the new heir. It would have been neat, calm and deliberate, just as life should be. It would not be the wreckage before him.

Charles was tempted to go further back and blame the telegraph wires for speeding things up in the first place, but he had to stop the blame somewhere. If he continued along that train of thought, he'd be blaming electricity, the steam engine, the horse, the wheel and the first caveman who used fire to boil water.

_But without boiled water, there would be no tea…_ he thought, crazily.

_Get a grip, man. Next thing, you'll be blaming Mrs. Hughes' electric toaster._ He was far closer to hysteria than he'd realized.

Was it any wonder? 20 feet to his right, they were finally placing Mr. Matthew into the hospital van.

Lord Grantham had continued on to the hospital, leaving Tom and Carson to handle the details at the scene. Tom had taken charge of the car. Carson was overseeing the removal of Mr. Matthew. He knew Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley would probably ask to see the body. Carson would make sure the sight would not pain them any more deeply than was absolutely necessary.

When they'd brought the body up to the road on the stretcher, Carson used the resources from the van to make him as presentable as possible.

_He could be resting…but for all the blood_. Charles thought. The van was equipped with some water and a full complement of sheets and bandages. He'd gotten most of the blood out of Mr. Matthew's hair and had extracted Mr. Matthew's jacket from the wreckage. Even if the jacket was a bit wrinkled, it would cover most of the blood that had stained his shirt and vest. It wasn't ideal, but Carson didn't think they'd let him take a detour by Downton for a change of clothes. The jacket would have to do.

Carson walked towards Tom. The younger man was engrossed in the automobile recovery. Carson knew he was focusing on the task so intently to avoid thinking about the implications and to avoid looking at the stretcher. The car was now up on level enough footing that the tractor could handle the full weight of the load. The progress had halted while the farmers unhitched their horses. Taking advantage of the lull, Carson cleared his throat and addressed Mr. Branson.

"All is prepared, and I shall be continuing on to the hospital now. Would you like us to wait a few more moments so you can ride with us, Mr. Branson?"

Mr. Branson gave him a strange look. Carson realized that Tom was trying to figure out who was meant by "us".

"The ambulance staff has assured me there is plenty of room for all 4 of us." No answer. He still wasn't reaching him. Though Carson's greatest concern was reserved for Lady Mary, he clearly saw how this death would resonate through the house and village. After Lady Mary, there were Mrs. Crawley and Lord Grantham, of course, but immediately after them (and perhaps before his Lordship, even) was Tom Branson. Tom was losing a brother-in-law, a business partner, and ally who had welcomed Tom into the family openly. Most significantly, Tom was losing a friend who had comforted him though the most painful experience a young husband can endure. He was experiencing exactly what Lady Mary would be experiencing, but in reverse; sibling, then spouse; spouse, then sibling.

In any order, the losses, coming less than 2 years apart could be debilitating for a weaker person. Carson accepted that Tom was not ready to face any of this painful reality just yet. Let him hide in the numb comfort of action for a while longer. Lord knows Charles had hidden there often enough.

Carson's sympathy for the young man was sincere. He wanted to say something supportive, something kind, but the right words refused to come, so he reverted to the familiar language of formality. "Very well, Mr. Branson, I will accompany Mr. Crawley to the hospital and attend His Lordship and Lady Mary. I'll leave it to you to secure the car and report back to the family at Downton. I will telephone from the hospital if there is anything to relate."

Tom nodded absently and returned his attention to said car as the last of the horses was led away and the tractor engine revved. "Yeah, telephone, Mr. Carson. That'd be fine."

"Damn contraption." But Carson stopped that train of thought right there. He must see to his duty. He must deliver Lady Mary's husband to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Thanks for the reviews. I am still getting used to the site but I hope to roll this one out pretty quickly.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own these characters, never did, never will:(**

Carson cannot think of these lads' names to save his life. He should know them from all the times they brought soldiers up to Downton from the hospital.

_Blast_, he used to be so good with names before the war. During the war, you stopped learning people's (_young men's_) names so the news of their deaths didn't have the same impact. You stopped looking people in eye because making any connection was just an invitation to pain.

Upon reaching the hospital, Carson instructed the still unnamed ambulance staff to take Mr. Crawley to a private room. When they started sputtering about proper procedure and insisted they should take "the body" directly to the morgue, Mr. Carson drew himself to his full height. He quickly glowered them into acquiescence. He'd been prepared to verbally berate them and remind them of the Crawley family's patronage of this particular hospital where they were _currently _employed, but it proved unnecessary. Lord, what's wrong with young people these days? No backbone. Where's the challenge in intimidating cowards?

Once they had settled Mr. Crawley in a room meeting Carson's approval, he set about rearranging the furniture so that both Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley would be able to sit next to the bed at the same time. He didn't have time to secure flowers from the hospital garden, but he was able to adjust the curtains in the room so the light was soft and warm. With his eyes closed, Mr. Crawley did truly look like he was sleeping.

…_but for the blood, _he thought once more.

Banishing this morbid thought, Carson stepped back into the hallway and hailed a nurse as she hurried by him. She quickly told him where he could find Dr. Clarkson.

Dr. Clarkson looked up expectantly as Carson rounded the corner. He looked older than Mr. Carson had ever seen him look, even during the war.

The doctor stood from his chair in the hall where he sat next to Anna, who was red eyed, but calm.

_God Bless that girl_. Solid and steady, come what may. Mrs. Hughes was justly proud of her.

Dr. Clarkson shook his head, "They don't know yet. His Lordship hasn't been able to find the words. He sent Anna out ten minutes ago, but I don't think he's been able to tell them yet. I think he was waiting for you, Mr. Carson."

Carson raised his not inconsiderable eyebrows at this information. He had thought he would be bringing her comfort. He had certainly not thought that he would be the messenger, the instrument that caused her pain. He had not thought he would have to bear witness to the first, raw moments of her mourning. He resented His Lordship for asking this of him. Almost in the same instant, he accepted that it was His Lordship's right to ask anything of him; even this. If he, a mere butler, was mortified at bringing her such painful news, how much worse must it be for a father?

He drew in a deep breath, held it for 5 seconds and then exhaled forcefully, through is mouth. He tipped a sad smile to Dr. Clarkson who would undoubtedly recognize the stress reducing technique the doctor had taught Carson after he'd run himself into a health crisis near the beginning of the war.

"Please wait here, both of you. You may be needed shortly."

_I live to serve_, he reminded himself as he reached for the door handle with one hand and knocked gently with the other.

CE-

The beatific smile she gave him as he peeked around the opening door made him feel like icicles were being driven simultaneously into his temple and his heart. His chest tightened and his head pounded. He wanted to slam the door, run down the hall, down the stairs and out into the village. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

But years of training kicked in as he returned her smile and stepped into the room. Mrs. Crawley sat in a chair to the left of the bed, talking about…well, Carson was never really sure what she was talking about on any given occasion. Right now, he couldn't be bothered to listen. His Lordship sat on right side of the bed, cradling a sleeping (_fatherless_) child in his arms. His face was impossible to read. He was trying to hide his pain from his daughter.

_The birth (or maybe Mrs. Crawley) must have really worn her out_, thought Carson. On any other day, she would have seen right through her father. She knew him too well. _At least she knew her father at all._

"Goodness, Carson! You are the last person I expected to see today."

"I found I had an errand in the village and I would be badly abused downstairs if I neglected to pay my respects." It was close enough to the truth that he hoped he could pass it off in the short term. Not that she would have noticed the tell-tale eye shift that always gave him away. She only had eyes for her child.

"I am so glad you have _not_ neglected me, Carson." She looked back from the baby in her father's arms and winked at him as he felt another icicle driven into his head.

"Mama will be upset that you saw the baby before she did, Carson. So perhaps we should not tell her. Apparently, she, Gran and Edith are all too tired from the return trip to visit me here," she remarked teasingly as she reached out to take the child from Lord Grantham.

"So, they'll just have to wait to see the baby. But, you are here and I would like to introduce you to the next generation of the Crawley dynasty. How many does that make for you, Carson? Four?"

He answered automatically, "Five, m'lady. Your great grandmother was still residing at Downton when I arrived. Not that I had occasion to wait on her. I was just a hall boy back then. She did throw a pillow at me once when she caught me dawdling in one of the upstairs rooms. As I recall, I was staring at a painting when she walked in on me." God, he was rambling. He looked to His Lordship for help, but Lord Grantham was suddenly preoccupied with the water glass on the table next to him. Carson's faint hope that His Lordship was waiting to deliver the tragic news until he knew Carson was back with Mr. Matthew flickered and died.

"Not one of the nudes, I hope!" She laughed down at the baby as it stirred. She placed her finger next to his tiny hand and teased him to grab it.

She was in such a playful mood, Carson's heart was breaking. She was relaxed, natural and happy. He understood from whence this new ease came. She had produced an heir! The strain of this familial obligation had always weighed heavily on her, even when she was a child, making her seem cold and severe to anyone who didn't understand her.

But this was _their_ Mary; his, Mr. Crawley's and Lady Sybil's. Now he was the only one left who truly saw her for who she was and who never demanded anything from her. Family and the continuation of tradition were as important to her they were to Carson. Perhaps that is why they always seemed to understand one another. If you've never been truly dedicated to anything, you can't understand someone who is.

Her successful chapter in the continuation of the family story was well begun. She was free to just be Mary Crawley, mother and wife. And someday, she would be Countess of Grantham. Or so she thought.

And now, he would be the one to destroy all that.

She mistook the pained look on his face for embarrassment.

"Never mind, Carson," she laughed.

"You were only a boy. I suppose we shall have to forgive you.

"Now, please, come over here and meet my son, or _I _shall throw a pillow at you."

**TBC- soon.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Sorry this is kind of a sad story, but, there it is. Please keep reading. There is a light at the end of the tunnel...I hope.**

He would never remember how he managed to cross the room without giving the game away, but when he came to his senses, there was a tiny child in his arms, looking up at him with the unfocused blue eyes of a newborn. Carson's breath stuck in his throat as he slowly became aware of his surroundings again. He was rather partial to blue eyes. Lady Mary seemed pleased with his awed silence and puffed up proudly as she looked up at him with brown eyes almost as innocent, almost as unfocused as her son's.

Mrs. Crawley had started talking again about the best foods for a new mother. She then moved on to some hints about diapers and then she was saying something about how just because the baby's eyes are blue now doesn't mean he might not have his mother's dark brown eyes. She changed topics so rapidly, he was getting dizzy. He could barely register words, let alone follow the conversation.

"I think Matthew would like it if he had my eyes. " Mary speculated dreamily, "He always says how much he likes brown eyes."

"Well, men always say silly things like that when they are in love, don't they?" Isobel teased back batting her lashes at her daughter-in-law over her own brown eyes. "Though, I do think he has always been partial to brown eyes, even when he was a little boy."

"Did you pass Mr. Crawley downstairs when you came in, Carson? I think it's safe for him to come up now. I didn't really understand what Papa said about him 'being along soon.'

"Papa's been so quiet. I'm afraid he never thought this day would come. Did you have so little faith in me, Papa?"

Lord Grantham stirred at last. He patted Mary's hand absently. "Not at all, my dear."

"Well, Carson?" She asked, again.

"Carson," he could hear the self-loathing in the Earl's voice, "answer Lady Mary. Have you seen Mr. Crawley?"

The moment had come. With more than a little resentment towards Lord Grantham, Carson lowered himself on to the bed, earning questioning looks from both ladies. He handed her son back to her, Mary's arms instinctively reaching out to receive him. Carson looked at Mrs. Crawley briefly before looking back at Lady Mary, directly into those brown eyes that Mr. Crawley had so loved.

_Keep it together, man. Even if she will forever associate you with the most painful moment of her life, this is what you are here for. This is your duty._

"My Lady, I am so very sorry to have to tell you that there has been an accident. Mr. Crawley's car has overturned. He has been killed." She made no motion but waited for him to continue in that gentle voice he seemed to save only for her. And, sometimes for _Her,_ but now was not the time to go off on another tangent.

"He is downstairs, in one of the private rooms, if you would like to see him and say goodbye. I can ask Dr. Clarkson to arrange a chair if you like."

The silence grew around them as he saw the reality seep into her tender, young face, as though she were already living out the empty years, so full just moments ago, that stretched out before her.

He realized he was still sitting on the bed, which was highly improper, but he was loath to move. If only he could reach out and touch her hand to show the depth of his sorrow for her.

He wrenched his eyes from Lady Mary and turned to Mrs. Crawley. She was ashen and looked quite unwell.

"Shall I send for Dr. Clarkson? I know he will not be far away." He offered.

She shook her head from side to side but almost inaudibly whispered, "Yes. Please."

Grateful to be excused, Carson stood from the bed and turned to leave. He had barely turned from the bed before Dr. Clarkson strode quickly and assuredly into the room_. _

_He must have been listening at the door. _Carson was grateful for his presence.

Still, there was something just beyond professional in the way the doctor took Isobel's hand. Realizing that he now had no reason to leave the room, Carson cast his eyes about the room for the most likely place to stand and await further instructions. The key to being a good servant was being able to be at once invisible and ubiquitous. This required a knack at finding just the right place to stand… not in their direct eye line, but always in a position where you can read their face and anticipate their needs. He settled on just inside the door off to the right where he had a view of Lady Mary and Lord Grantham, but they would have to turn their heads to see him.

After many timeless minutes, Lady Mary did turn her head towards him. He straightened his back and stepped forward. He had seen the resolve in her face a split second before she had begun to turn towards him.

"Shall I arrange a chair, m'lady?"

"No, Carson. I am capable of walking."

CE-

Carson, Anna and Dr. Clarkson stood in the hallway outside the observation room. Carson mused that all three of them were well practiced in the art of waiting. Though he thought Anna would win any competition for patience. Long suffering did not even begin to describe her conduct during Mr. Bate's 'troubles'.

Carson had learned to fill the externally tedious hours with an active and, hopefully, productive inner dialogue. These moments were his opportunities to cast a more observant and thoughtful glance back over recent occurrences. And these were the times he cast his thoughts into the near and far off future, trying to predict the flow of events.

_Always be prepared._

Carson looked back at Dr. Clarkson without moving his head. He'd seen Dr. Clarkson worried on many occasions, during the war, during the Spanish flu epidemic and during Lady Sybil's delivery. The distraction which the good doctor currently exhibited far exceeded any of those instances. This made Carson think of his conversation with Mrs. Hughes last night.

_Was it just last night?_

A lifetime seemed to have passed since then. Mrs. Hughes had been telling him about the faire and had mentioned, archly, that the doctor and Mrs. Crawley had been seen very much enjoying each others' company. Carson had teased her that there was nothing improper in two good friends enjoying some innocent companionship.

_If you think otherwise, Mrs. Hughes, perhaps I should leave, _he'd smiled over his sherry glass.

That had elicited the exact response he had hoped for. She had erupted in her sweet, genuine laugh that seemed to occur only when he had succeeded in surprising her with a bit of uncharacteristic frivolity. He admitted that he meted out his humor judiciously. If he were always cracking wise, he would open himself up to ridicule, which did not befit his position. However, he loved to see her smile and hear her laugh, so he allowed himself to be ridiculous.

_But only for Her_.

Now, watching Dr. Clarkson fidget in the hallway, Carson felt he might owe Mrs. Hughes an apology for doubting her instincts.

_It wouldn't be the first time._

Filing that away in his mind, he thought of an earlier, less frivolous, topic of their discussion that night; Tom Branson and the maid, Edna. Carson was still fuming about that impropriety while Mrs. Hughes was trying to assure him that Mr. Branson had been properly chastised, was aware of his role in the flirtation and would be wiser in future.

_"Maybe I should talk to him."_

_"You will not! Mr. Carson, I assure you, the matter is handled. I wish you could show him more kindness. He's still quite lonely after Lady Sybil's death and he is particularly lonely now that Mr. Crawley is gone to Scotland." She'd narrowed her eyes at him._

_"You don't have to act like a petulant child just because he has been able to improve himself more than you think he has any right to."_

_Damn, she's right again. _Carson knew he was being petulant.

But he also knew that his rudeness to Mr. Branson was based on more than a general sense of impropriety. Mr. Branson's actions had been a personal betrayal of the trust that existed between employer and employee. And, even though the actual betrayal was Tom's, Mr. Carson felt that he had been implicated by association.

It was Carson's responsibility to protect the family. It was Carson's responsibility to keep the staff in line. He had failed on both counts. Seeing Mr. Branson on a daily basis, sitting at the breakfast table while Carson stood beside the serving board, was a constant humiliation which Carson felt the petty need to return to the boy when he was below stairs, in Carson's domain.

Carson thought back to how Mr. Branson had been at the accident scene. Yes, Carson would try to be more magnanimous to Mr. Branson in future.

His mind wandered to the subject of humiliation. Mrs. Hughes did not approve of his use of humiliation as a disciplinary tactic. However, he could never abandon it entirely. Discipline must be maintained below stairs. While humiliation was not a perfect method, he could tell her, from experience, there were worse. Why, when he was a hall boy…

Carson was brought back to the present by the sound of a baby crying. He looked towards the door and then at Dr. Clarkson and then at Anna. Both the others were looking at him expectantly. He really though Anna should handle this. But since Dr. Clarkson seemed to be on her side, Carson nodded imperceptibly, stepped to the door and knocked.

It was Lord Grantham who opened the door. It was Lady Mary who said, "Do come in, Carson."


	4. Chapter 4

The light in the room was the warm yellow that signaled the beginning of a long, lingering summer sunset. The windows of the room faced west and every object and person in the room seemed gilded in gold. Lady Mary, holding the squirming child, stood over a seated Mrs. Crawley.

Backlit and golden Lady Mary looked like a dark-eyed, Italian Madonna.

_Oh, Mrs. Hughes would love that imagery_. Carson thought wryly.

She already thought he worshiped the Crawleys, especially Lady Mary, quite enough. Still, he could not shake the image from his mind.

"Carson, I should like to go home now."

"Arrangements have been made, my Lady." When they left Downton earlier, the plan was to bring Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley back with them before nightfall if they would both agree. The car was indeed waiting for them and rooms were prepared at Downton. Carson turned to Lord Grantham, "Will Mrs. Crawley be accompanying you?"

"Please, Isobel." His Lordship nodded, taking up the lead from Carson. "You should not be alone over the next few days. Mama is staying with us. She and Cora want so very much to see you."

Mrs. Crawley's eyes lifted reluctantly from her son's face and traveled to the door. She seemed at a loss for words. Carson realized that she was probably wondering exactly where Dr. Clarkson was.

"Might I suggest that the doctor accompany you all to Downton, m'lord? Some of the ladies may need sleeping draughts for tonight. Indeed, Lady Grantham did not look at all well when we left her."

"Of course, Carson. Please, would you ask him if he is available?" Lord Grantham seemed to like the idea of having the doctor at his family's immediate disposal. Carson did not think the lord had realized how much easier it had just become to convince Mrs. Crawley to accompany them.

Carson waited for the matter to be settled before going for the doctor. He knew that he would not have to look far.

"Isobel, would you please come with us?"

"My things…" her voice was barely audible as she turned back to the figure on the bed.

Lady Mary took over here. Her voice was so calm. Carson was saddened to hear the playful ease of earlier replaced with the icy pragmatism she was so often misunderstood for.

"You already have the essentials in your room at Downton. Carson will stop by Crawley House and pick up anything more you need. Please, mother." Mary's term of endearment finally shook Mrs. Crawley from her troubled thoughts. She nodded.

The time had come to say goodbye to her son. Isobel reached out and took Mr. Matthew's hand with her left hand, as she raised her right towards Mary's hand that rested on her shoulder.

The sun had dropped below the scattered clouds and was now shining almost directly through the windows. The curtains that Carson had carefully arranged over an hour earlier were useless. Mr. Matthew's face shone in the blazing light of the day's last brilliance. Carson could only see the silhouettes of the two mothers as Isobel began to shake with tears and Mary leaned down to hold her.

Nothing in the world breathed in those moments. Carson was transfixed with a strange mixture of grief, reverence, hope and something he could not identify. Finally, he turned to leave and make the necessary arrangements. He thought inexplicably of the first time he'd seen the inside of Westminster on his first trip to London.

_"And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity._"**

**A/N ** Corinthians I, Chapter 13 v.13. **

**I'll be posting the next 3 chapters pretty quickly. Elsie isn't too far away...**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Not really meaning to go so far off track. I am just obsessed with what motivates a man like Carson. Please indulge me; I'll try to make it brief. And will post Chapter 6 almost immediately.**

After seeing the others off to Downton, Charles had waited at the hospital to speak to the undertaker. Then, he'd collected some things from Crawley House, though with some difficulty.

_That new housekeeper is worse than Ethel_, he thought.

_I am certainly not going to bother learning her name._

But now, he was walking towards home in the comfortable summer night. Now, he had time to remember that day at Westminster; the warm light, the angelic music and the words that had changed his life.

He had been ten years old. It had been a society wedding which required a parade of altar boys, attendants, flower girls and every other ostentatious proof of wealth available. The Countess Lady Grantham, had offered the services of Charles, as he was called then, and several of the taller hall boys and stable boys.

He'd been paired with an older boy who was almost his twin in every way, despite the 3 year difference. They were the ring bearers; perfectly matched accessories for the happy couple's perfect day. Charles still blushed when he thought of what he'd been forced to wear that day. No doubt, there still existed, in some stately home in Scotland, on a mantelpiece; a wedding picture which included young Charles Carson in a tartan kilt, short-waisted dress coat and a long-sleeved shirt with neck ruffles that looked like they were trying to consume his head.

Perhaps there were some traditions that he would not mind letting die out.

After dutifully delivering the rings, he and his twin had stood just to the sides of the bride and groom. The midday sun through the rose window had colored everything in rich, warm colors that reminded him of the light he'd just experienced in Mr. Matthew's room at the hospital.

When the choir had sung; the hymns had filled the church and risen to heaven, reflected back by every corner of the magnificent cathedral. You could almost fool yourself into hearing the answering voices of angels in those echoes.

It was probably the first time young Charles Carson had actually believed there could be a God. He was far too pragmatic a child to put much store in the idea of heaven or hell. To him, these were romantic ideas better left to people with the leisure time to consider them.

His life consisted of getting up early, working hard, being grateful for the food he was given and even more grateful for the sleep he was finally granted at the end of the day. He'd been in service since he was 7 years old. He had a hard time remembering anything before that. Sometimes he thought he could remember his mother's face, but he knew it must be a false memory. No one could have been that beautiful.

Now, here he was, a 10 year-old in London for the first time. Most of the time in London had been idle. It made him quite nervous. They'd fed the boys while they fitted them for their _(costumes)_ uniforms. He'd wanted toast. They'd given him cake. The rich food had upset his stomach.

Most of the wedding ceremony was long forgotten or had merged in his memory with other weddings over the years. But he still remembered the sermon. It had been from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians.

At that point, young Charles hadn't heard much from the New Testament beyond the stories of Christmas and Easter.

His only other exposure to the Bible was stories of sin and consequences from the Old Testament, which seemed to focus on the machinations of a selfish and vengeful God.

This passage was different.

Corinthians I, Chapter 13…

He'd heard it so many times since; he could recite it by heart. It was almost a cliché at weddings. It was a list of all the things love, called 'charity' in the King James Bible, should be.

He'd rewritten the chapter, keeping his favorite parts and dropping the parts that he didn't understand.

Charles had kept his version, written in a 10 year-old's scrawling hand, folded in various books until it had started to deteriorate many years ago. Then, he'd protected it in a frame and hung it in his room. It was far too personal to go in the butler's pantry.

Not a day went by that he did not see these words. They represented a young boy's naively imperfect understanding of the divine. He'd never found any better understanding to replace them.

_"Without love, I am nothing. I have nothing._

_Love is patient, and kind. It is not jealous or proud._

_Love does not consider its own needs._

_Love is fair and rejoices in truth._

_Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things and endures all things._

_Love never fails. Everything else will end._

_For now, we see as through a glass, darkly, but in the end we shall see face to face. We shall know fully, as we are known._

_Now there remains only faith, hope and love; but the greatest of these is love."_

This had been the standard to which he had since aspired. It justified his pursuit of perfection, it validated his choices.

He still needed to work on not being overly proud.

_Occupational hazard_, he mused.

Before that day in Westminster, a life in service was just a way to earn a living. After that day, for Charles Carson, his life in service was a study in perfecting his notion of Love.

He'd come to believe that self-sacrifice in service was the truest form of Love. It was certainly the only form of Love to which he'd completely opened his heart.

Why was he thinking these things tonight? Losing Mr. Matthew, the heir of Grantham, was certainly affecting him in ways he could not have expected. It was painful, but not as painful as Lady Sybil's death. Was he becoming numb?

He hadn't known Mr. Matthew as long as he'd known the girls, but Carson did truly like the lad.

He cast his thoughts back to that London wedding, now over 50 years ago. They were memories he hadn't thought of in years, despite how much that trip had changed him.

Charles had spent the whole reception hiding from the other boys. They'd found and "defrocked" his twin. He knew he could hold his own against a few of them, but not the whole lot; and not in a skirt.

Finally, he'd been allowed to divest himself of the finery and return to his livery. Granted the dignity of pants again, he joined the other servants loading the coaches for the long trip back to Yorkshire.

A strong, lace gloved hand had tapped his shoulder lightly. He had turned to find himself almost eye to eye with the Countess herself. He had not realized that he had grown so tall.

"You did very well, today, Charles. You made the family very proud." These were the first words that the Countess had ever spoken to him. They were plain and sincere and they were exactly the words he needed to hear. From that moment on, he would have done anything for her or the Family.

So, yes, maybe he did worship the Crawleys a little bit. What others didn't understand, what _she_ didn't understand; was that he worshiped the idea of the family; not the individuals. He cared for the individuals, of course, and had his favorites, but even they were less important than what they represented.

Family, the abstract, was greater than any individual could hope to be. Heredity was the only form of immortality he could confirm in his limited experience. Family must continue.

Dynastic families like the Granthams were the foundation of England. He still wasn't sure if he believed in God, but he believed in England. He would protect the traditions of England. He would serve his family and be content.

Or so he'd thought.

The war had changed things. He could not deny it. The war had changed him. Even while he tried to return to the pre-war status, he was restless. Traditions were relaxing, doors were appearing in the walls between the classes. Soon, the walls would be gone altogether.

Men like Charles Carson would be anachronistic. The system to which he'd given his life would be gone. They thought he didn't know. He did know, he just chose to ignore it for as long as he could. But, walking in the dead of night towards a house of mourning, he could not avoid the thoughts.

Everything will end and what would he be left with?

_Now there remains only faith, hope and love; but the greatest of these is Love._

**A/N Finally, Elsie makes her appearance in the next chapter. Thank you for your patience**.


	6. Chapter 6

Maybe it was the grief, maybe the fatigue or maybe it was the effect of walking such a familiar path in the strange moonlit stillness, but he'd let his mind wander in an uncharacteristically sentimental direction.

_Hypocrite._ Hadn't he chastised Mrs. Hughes just 2 days ago for being overly sentimental? She'd laughed it off, but it was rather ungenerous of him to accuse her of sentimentality when he was the one who had been carrying an infant all over the house most of the evening.

_I believe that is what they call an over correction. _He reminded himself that he owed her an apology.

Carson had refused His Lordship's offer to send the car back for him. He was second guessing that decision now. He felt the weariness begin to overtake him.

He was almost back to Downton. In fact, he found he was approaching the site of the accident. He stopped walking and looked down at the broken underbrush. Tom and the tenants had done a passable job of removing the more obvious signs of the catastrophe, but it was easy to spot if you knew where to look.

Hopefully, His Lordship had been able to distract the ladies when they were passing. They might want to know the spot someday, but most likely not today, while everything was so fresh.

Struck with a sudden thought, Carson set down Mrs. Crawley's valise and walked off the side of the road through the broken brambles.

He found the spot quickly enough. Even in the moonlight the patch of blood was clearly visible. Now that he was looking down at the stain on the grass, he hesitated. What did he think he was going to do? He wanted to mark the spot before it faded from summer rains and new growth. There wasn't time to gather stones in the dark to build a small cairn. Looking around at all the broken twigs, he saw his solution.

Carson sat on the ground and removed his left shoe. He removed the lace. Choosing two substantial limbs from the rubble, Carson lashed the two together to form a cross. Using a large rock, he planted the cross in the middle of the dark stain. That should last long enough for a more permanent solution to be found.

Carson scrambled up to the road, back through the brambles. He picked up the valise and resumed his walk towards home. He had no sense of the time and didn't care enough to pull out his watch.

CE-

As he approached the dark edifice, he was not surprised that there were no visible lights. If anyone was still up, they would be below stairs or in the family rooms which faced off the back of the house. His feet directed him automatically towards the servants' entrance.

He was less than 200 yards from the house before he noticed the light moving towards him. He smiled despite himself as he recognized the gait and heard the keys jingling in the empty night.

"You shouldn't have waited up. At least one of us should be functional tomorrow." He said as Mrs. Hughes approached. She carried a small lantern that directed its light onto the graveled path.

"You mean 'today', you daft man. It's nearly one o'clock." Her mocking tone almost hid the relief she obviously felt.

"The others arrived almost 3 hours ago. We called the hospital an hour ago and they said you'd left about an hour after Lady Mary and His Lordship.

"But what have you been about since then?"

"Apparently, packing a valise is more complicated than I ever imagined." He held up the tiny bag that weighed almost nothing and yet had taken almost an hour to pack. And that was after it had taken him twenty minutes to rouse the sleeping housekeeper.

"You have my renewed respect," he bowed to her ever so slightly.

Even though he couldn't see her face in the dark, he heard the smile in her reply.

"Mrs. Crawley certainly has a gift for choosing servants." she tutted.

They'd finally arrived at the backdoor. She blew out the lantern and hung it on its hook.

His eyes had adjusted so completely to the dark that Mr. Carson stumbled a bit as he stepped into the brightly lit hallway. She led him with a steady hand on his arm as he blinked uncomfortably down the hall. She took advantage of his distraction to look him over surreptitiously.

He was obviously exhausted, she could see, but there were no other signs that alarmed her. Some food and some rest and he would be good as new. Except…

"What _have_ you done with your shoe, Mr. Carson?" He shook his head but offered no explanation.

"Never mind, I have spare laces in my sewing kit.

"Would you like a bite to eat? Mrs. Patmore made some sandwiches and left them for you."

His stomach grumbled loudly in response.

"That would be wonderful, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you." He answered sincerely.

"And there is some soup too, I believe. I think Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley both were able to take some soup in their rooms. I'll see if there is any left." She turned off into the kitchen as Mr. Carson continued on into the servant's hall.

He placed the valise in the chair usually occupied by Miss O'Brien. One of the maids could run it up later. He doubted that anything in it was really all that essential.

Finally, he collapsed into his chair at the head of the table. A small platter with an assortment of tea sandwiches sat in front of him. Since he was alone while she was in the kitchen, he opted for efficiency, not etiquette. He grunted with satisfaction as he pushed two triangles of sandwich in his mouth, whole, one after the other.

He tried to think of the last time he had eaten. They'd offered something at the hospital, but no one had been inclined to eat. So, it must have been breakfast that morning, which he'd only poked at in his nervousness for Lady Mary. Almost 20 hours without food would never do for a growing boy like him, he reasoned as he reached back towards the plate.

He'd filled his cheeks with two more sandwiches when she came out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of broth.

"It's not much, but it will help tide you over to breakfa…" She bit back a laugh at the sight before her. It wasn't just seeing his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. His hair was that disheveled mess that told her he'd been running his hand through it absentmindedly. His cowlick was completely out of control and she thought she saw a twig or leaf stuck behind his ear.

She looked down quickly so he wouldn't get self-conscious under her amused gaze. She set the bowl in front of him. Wordlessly, not trusting herself to speak without laughing, she pointed at his laceless shoe.

He removed it and handed it to her. She walked around him to take her customary chair. After she seated herself, she pulled a spare shoelace out of her knitting bag she'd brought with her.

"The kettle is on if you'd like tea after this."

He had finished consuming the third and fourth sandwiches and popped a fifth into his mouth for good measure. He nodded absently in reply to her offer of tea. Then, after swallowing the sandwiches practically whole, he looked down at the bowl in front of him and then looked up at her in askance.

She couldn't think what was wrong. And she didn't know how to respond to that cocked eyebrow under that unruly mess of thick hair. Then, she suddenly realized what she'd forgotten. She started to jump up, laying his shoe on the table.

"Stay, Mrs. Hughes." he said, placing his hand over hers to stop her from leaving.

"I think table manners have already been sufficiently abused. I might as well continue the offensive. I don't need a spoon."

He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank the lot down in one big draught. He replaced the bowl in front of him with exaggerated delicacy and offered her a wink. She tried to keep a straight face as she handed him his shoe with its stiff new lace. He put it on and tied it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.

"I think I'll grab a few winks while we wait for that tea." Then, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and let the fatigue wash over him.

CE-

The clock in the hall rang the quarter hour. Was it one fifteen or quarter to two? He neither knew, nor cared.

He opened his eyes experimentally. She had left her chair, but he could hear her in the kitchen, grabbing the kettle off the heat before it could whistle and disturb him.

He took a deep breath and was rising from his chair when she returned. He was yawning spectacularly.

"Mr. Carson, you should go directly to bed. Thomas can wait at breakfast tomorrow. I doubt it will be very well attended."

"No, Lady Mary might need me. I'll grab some sleep in my pantry. Also, I think I am in dire need of a shave." He was running his hand absently over his chin. He did indeed have a bit of a shadow forming, she noticed.

"At least I can put that hot water to good use."

"Very well, but first, show me your hands." She demanded.

"What?"

"Your hands. Hold them out, like so." She held both her hands out in front of her like a child whose nails were being checked before church.

He reluctantly did the same. There_ was_ dirt under his nails, which embarrassed him. She was more concerned, however, by the way his hands were shaking. He was more exhausted than even he had realized.

"I am not sure putting a razor in those hands is the wisest thing, Mr. Carson."

"I cannot present myself upstairs unkempt, Mrs. Hughes. I shall manage."

"Nor can you present yourself with a face that has been butchered."

He did not smile at her joke. They had reached an impasse.

"Very well, Mr. Carson. I shall have to do it."

"What?" He asked stupidly.

"_I_ shall shave you."

**A/N Hope the Chelsie was worth the wait. God, I love these two.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Pure Chelsie fluff...enjoy.**

She poured the near boiling water from the kettle into a basin, lifted it and walked into his pantry with three small towels and an apron draped over her arm.

He had removed his jacket and hung it carefully behind the door. His tie was rolled up neatly and stuffed into the jacket pocket.

She pulled his arm-chair towards his desk so she could set the basin and shaving implements within easy reach on his desk. She dropped one of the towels into the basin.

"Are you absolutely sure you know what you are doing?" He placed the shaving kit on his desk for her. He still looked unsure, but was too tired to put up much of a fight.

"I used to help my father shave when I was a young girl." She assured him.

"Yes, but how long ago was that, Mrs. Hughes?" _Oh, dear. _He hadn't meant for it to sound like that. He held his breath, hoping he had not offended her.

"I will chalk that indelicate question up to exhaustion, Mr. Carson. But I would not recommend many more questions of that nature." She frowned in mock indignation, picking up the razor meaningfully as she did so.

He hesitated, suddenly looking _very_ unsure of the whole business. He fumbled with the top button on his shirt. She laughed and he relaxed a bit as he managed to unbutton that pesky top button and turn down his collar.

"Now, sit." she ordered him. She took her position behind the armchair.

He obeyed and gave an involuntarily satisfied moan as he leaned back into the chair. She rolled one of the towels up and placed it behind his neck, leaning his head back comfortably. Her fingers brushed the soft hairs on the back of his neck. He sighed deeply. With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine he was in a barber shop. He'd only indulged in a proper shave twice in his life. He smiled slightly at the remembrance. He smiled even more at the anticipation.

"This will be quite warm." She warned as she removed the steaming towel from the basin, wrung it out and wrapped it around the lower half of his face.

She then drew the apron around his neck. She adjusted the white fabric over the broad expanse of his chest. A thought flickered through her mind that this must be what it would feel like to tuck him into his bed at night. Her ears turned scarlet at the image.

Of course, she'd visited him in his room on several occasions; when he was sick. But she'd never had the courage to actually tuck him in, though he'd been sorely tempted. He was such an endearing figure when he was sick; a giant man in striped pajamas sitting up in a tiny bed. She still wasn't sure how he fit when he lay down completely. And, as always, there was that hair. When he was ill, that hair was left untamed and made him look like one of the mischievous Katzenjammer kids.

Under the pretense of adjusting the towel beneath his neck, she risked the indulgence of running the fingers of her right hand through his hair. She wondered if he had enjoyed that as much as she had, but he was unreadable beneath the steaming towel. Fearing she had gone too far, she turned away from him quickly and picked up the shaving mug.

The badger hair brush, a Christmas present from His Lordship, was soaking in hot water in his shaving mug. She removed the brush now and poured most of the water back into the basin. She picked up the small tube of shave cream marked "Taylor of Old Bond Street. Sandalwood." After placing a dollop into the mug, she whisked the brush to make the lather ready.

The smell coming from the mug was pure, distilled Mr. Carson. She felt a little light-headed and had to take a deep breath to steady herself before continuing.

His breath was even and easy now. She thought he might actually be asleep already. She considered letting him sleep and he could shave himself later, but she knew there would be no time later. Plus, she didn't want to waste this opportunity. She wasn't often (_ever_) given such license to touch him; _and on the face!_ She had to admit to herself, she was quite looking forward to the experience. She flattered herself that he might be quite looking forward to it as well.

When she removed the still warm towel, he took a deeply pleased breath and half-opened one eye. She smiled down at him warmly. His face was red and flushed from the heat of the towel. She felt her own face flush from a different kind of heat. He didn't seem to notice as he closed his eye again and nodded for her to begin.

Using the brush, she began to spread the warm lather across his chin and neck. She traced the contours of his jaw trying to keep the brush strokes brisk and short to hide the true tenderness of the action. She drew the brush almost teasingly up his neck. She noticed he was smiling. He crinkled his nose as the brush tickled the soft skin just under his lips. She made sure to lather that bit again.

She was enjoying the process so much; she worried that she might have gotten carried away. She was beginning to fear that he might notice. When she had traced all his features multiple times and she finally forced herself to stop, the lather was so thick, he looked quite rabid. The smell of the sandalwood shaving cream was now overpowering. She checked the steadiness of her hands with her back to him before she opened the razor. It was a classic straight razor just like her father had used.

She knew the badger hair brush had been part of a gift set that included a lovely Gillette double-edged safety razor, but Mr. Carson was not yet ready to embrace this new contraption. As if something that had been in common usage since the turn of the century could be considered new. She smiled at the thought of his stubborn refusal to join the 20th century. She loved to tease him about it, but it was one of the things she loved best about him. Maybe in part,_ because_ it gave her something to tease him about.

Knowing Mr. Carson's habits, she was sure the blade had been perfectly honed after the last shave. She tested the razors edge on a leaf she plucked from his hair.

_I'll have to ask him about that_, she noted for later. The razor dissected it cleanly.

She forced herself to breathe deeply before leaning into her work.

CE-

She had a delicate and deft touch, as he'd known she would. He was very sorry indeed when she was done with the lathering process. But then he realized that actual shaving would require (_allow_) her to touch his face directly, not just with a brush. No matter how exquisite it had felt.

With the slight pressure of two fingers of her left hand, she lifted his chin to present the best angle for the blade. He let himself be guided by her touch. His trust was absolute.

He could barely feel where the blade was. He could only follow her progress by feeling the fresh air on the newly exposed skin as she stripped away the warm lather. It reminded him of the delicious sensation of stripping off his suit at the end of a hot day with cool air breezing through his window as he removed each starched and unnecessarily heavy layer. He was only half aware that he was making small noises of contentment with each pass of the razor.

She finished with his neck and drew his head to one side to begin her attentions on his chin and cheeks. Her fingers brushed his lips as she carefully navigated that ticklish bit under his lips. Again, his nose crinkled at the sensation. She made a mental note of that spot, hoping to have the opportunity to use the information some day. She was glad his eyes were closed for she could not suppress her adoring smile.

Oh, yes. She was quite enjoying this. She could touch him freely and he would not push her away or tell her how inappropriate it was. After the pain of losing Mr. Crawley, she needed this, she needed human contact. She needed_ him_.

They'd shared a few moments of comfort after Lady Sybil's death; simply her reaching out to him and him covering her hand as it rested on his own. They'd stood there for what seemed like hours, but was probably mere seconds. Even that little connection with him had helped them both during that terrible night.

He felt himself drifting off into a well earned sleep. Mr. Carson suspected that he would be having very lovely and vivid dreams tonight. Part of his mind remembered to be grateful that the apron was covering down to his knees.

What had he done to deserve the friendship of this woman? He'd convinced himself years ago that she had gone into service because she instinctively knew that no man could possibly be worthy of her. He'd been content merely to see her everyday, though there was no 'merely' about it.

He knew he was an old fool, but damn if he wasn't one hell of a lucky old fool. Judging by the way she was caressing his face, he might actually be even luckier than he'd thought. Maybe his dreams about retirement weren't so far fetched. Maybe he had reason to want to retire soon. But now was not the time to pursue that. He was truly exhausted. He fought against falling asleep in hopes that she would run her fingers through his hair again. He wanted to feel her close cropped finger nails (_at once sensible and feminine, just like her_) brush against the delicate skin at the nape of his neck. If only he could just stay awake...

He had been snoring gently for a few minutes and she was almost finished shaving him when there was the sound of commotion on the back stairs. There were angry and agitated voices raised in the hall just outside the pantry.

Mr. Carson jolted awake and sat up into the razor poised over his chin as she prepared for another pass. The razor nicked him, but he did not notice. He was saved from a very bad scar only by Mrs. Hughes' quick reflexes.

The pantry door burst open.

"Come quick, Mr. Carson!" Jimmy yelled. "It's Mr. Molesley!"


	8. Chapter 8

Mr. Carson jumped up from the chair. The near bliss of just moments ago was immediately forgotten.

"What _about_ Mr. Molesley?" Mr. Carson demanded.

"Apparently, he's been drinking in the attic since Mrs. Hughes told us about Mr. Crawley. He's gotten quite drunk. And…"

"And?" Prompted Mr. Carson.

"He's found Mr. Crawley's old uniform and service revolver. He's threatening to do himself in, Mr. Carson. Alfred and I were trying to at least get him outside, away from the others. It sounds like Alfred may have gotten him out into the courtyard now."

Mr. Carson grabbed the apron from around his neck and wiped at the remaining lather on his face as he stormed out of the room. He threw the apron at the coat rack as he walked briskly through the now open backdoor. The look in his eyes was deadly.

_God help Mr. Molesley_, Mrs. Hughes and Jimmy thought simultaneously.

"Wait!" She was struck by a sudden thought. "James, did you say he had Mr. Crawley's pistol? Is it loaded?"

"We don't know." Jimmy said. "I don't think Mr. Molesley knows how to handle a pistol when he's sober, but we're operating under the assumption that it is loaded."

They hurried towards the backdoor. They almost ran into Alfred as he came rushing back in.

"Mr. Carson says we are all to stay in here. He'll handle Mr. Molesley."

"But does Mr. Molesley still have the gun?" Mrs. Hughes asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

Alfred nodded emphatically, his complexion even whiter than usual.

"You two, stay here." She ordered, as she stepped towards the door.

Alfred blocked her path and held up both his hands to impede her. "Mr. Carson was very clear that we were _all_ to stay inside. He mentioned you by name, Mrs. Hughes."

_Infuriating man! Well, I'd like to see this boy try to stop me. _"I hope you are not honestly attempting to order me about, Alfred Nugent!" She fixed him with her most withering look. To his credit, he lasted all of 5 seconds.

Mrs. Hughes walked around Alfred and out the backdoor. Her eyes had to readjust to the darkness so she stood silently just outside the door. She wasn't stupid enough to go rushing madly into a situation that involved a drunken man with a gun but she could not be expected to wait helplessly inside.

She stepped silently away from the door towards the sound of Mr. Carson's voice. She was confused. She had expected to hear raised voices and shouting. Instead his voice was calm and steady. There was no anger in it. His tone was almost conversational; a tone he never adopted with Mr. Molesley. Most days he could barely tolerate the man.

Mrs. Hughes felt sorry for Mr. Molesley and knew that he meant well, even if he was a bit hapless. He was good at many aspects of the job; particularly the mending and but he lacked confidence and his demeanor was fidgety and jumpy. She sympathized that it must be difficult to be a Mr. Molesley when there is a Mr. Carson and a Mr. Bates about. For the good of the house, Mr. Carson tried to offer his assistance to the man whenever possible. Still, she knew Mr. Carson found the man to be obsequious and lacking in the dignity that a servant in the great house should display.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Molesley?" She heard him saying casually.

"Very well, suit yourself. I hope you don't mind if I do. It's been quite a long day and I'm not sure how much longer I'd be able to stand."

_Thank god,_ Mrs. Hughes thought. _Mr. Carson has the sense to be gentle with the poor man._ She eased into a corner where the moonlight did not penetrate. She had a clear view of both men bathed in moonlight in the middle of the back courtyard while she remained hidden from their sight.

Mr. Carson was sitting casually on the outdoor plank table. Not on the bench, but up on the table top itself, his feet resting on the bench. He looked perfectly at ease. He was leaning back with his hands supporting him in a casual, almost reclining position.

Mr. Molesley was about 20 yards away from Mr. Carson, pacing unsteadily back and forth. He brandished an almost empty clear glass bottle in his left hand and a pistol in his right. He was wearing a red regimental dinner jacket over a dirty and disheveled dress shirt. She assumed the jacket was Mr. Crawley's.

"You may not believe me, Mr. Molesley, but I think I know a little about how you feel right now."

_Mr. Carson is going to talk about feelings? This could go very badly…_ she thought. She held her breath, ready to jump in if Mr. Carson needed any help.

"You can't know what I am going through," Molesley slobbered at him.

"Your job is secure, they all respect you. They all _love_ you." He put as much venom into those last two words as he could muster in his impaired state.

"You flatter me, but they do think more of you than you are aware, Mr. Molesley." Mr. Carson spoke with his usual authority, but it was softened a bit. She hoped it would put Mr. Molesley at ease.

"You've been with Mr. Crawley since he arrived in Downton. It was your instruction and guidance that helped acclimate him to this style of life. Without you, he'd have been content to stay an attorney in Ripon. He would never have been able to be worthy of Lady Mary."

Mrs. Hughes was glad eye rolling was silent. Facing an armed, inebriated man, Mr. Carson could not just leave the blessed Lady Mary out of it. Everything really was about her for him. Why couldn't she accept that? Of course, she thought, he was almost as fiercely loyal to herself._ Almost._

"What I meant to say, Mr. Molesley, is that I understand the very unique bond between a valet and his gentleman. It is not commonly known that I served as the 4th Earl's valet for most of his final years. I was 1st footman at the time, but they could not find a reliable valet, so I was pressed into service.

"We weren't entertaining much during that time, due to the Earl's health, so a 1st footman was a bit of a luxury. Most of my time those last few years was spent caring for him.

"I was the last person to see him alive and it was I who found him the morning after he died. I was quite affected by the event. It upset me to the point where I left service for a time."

Mrs. Hughes had not known that. She knew of his brief time on the stage, not that he knew that. But she did not know any details surrounding it. She was so shocked she almost forgot to observe Mr. Molesley. When she remembered, however, she saw that Mr. Carson's words were starting to reach him through the grief and the alcohol. That, or, he was very close to passing out. She couldn't be sure which.

He'd stopped pacing at least and was now just swaying in place. He was mumbling things that were inaudible from her vantage point. She didn't dare move when Mr. Carson was so close to resolving the situation. Any noise might spook Mr. Molesley.

"Mr. Molesley, I can assure you that the family is grateful for your service and will not cast you off. I doubt we need an under, under butler, but we will find a way to use your talents. Now, if you would please just place the gun on the ground, we can see you safely to your room. You cannot seriously wish to do yourself harm. Think of your father. Think of Mrs. Crawley."

More mumbling.

"Well, I don't know about making sure you still work in the big house, Mr. Molesley. I think you might be better used at the Dowager House or Crawley House. You could use the full scope of your skills there.

"We'll have to assess things in a few weeks. Does it matter so very much that you work in the big house?"

More mumbling. Mrs. Hughes saw Mr. Carson tense slightly. She heard him breathe in that exasperated way he had when he'd just been asked an incredibly stupid question or received an incredibly stupid answer.

"I am not sure this is the time to be considering _cricket_, Mr. Molesley. However, if it will put your mind at ease, since you have played on the house team, you are considered alumni now and will be eligible to play in any subsequent years, regardless of whether or not you are working in the main house. We introduced that rule a few decades back when we were having trouble putting a full team together.

"Might I note that perhaps there are better ways to impress your father than on the cricket pitch?"

He let the silence build around them for a few moments as the heart broken man swayed in the moonlight.

"I don't think there is anything else we can resolve tonight, Mr. Molesley. Shall we perhaps turn in?" There was a touch of impatience creeping into his voice and body language now.

_Steady, Mr. Carson. You are almost there._ Mrs. Hughes thought at him in the darkness.

Thankfully, his voice softened again as he leaned forward now.

"Please, Mr. Molesley. You are a valued member of this household. Please do not compound the present tragedy. Please place the gun on the ground and come inside.

"We'll get you some coffee, some water and some aspirin. You are going to feel rather badly tomorrow morning, but then, so are we all."

Mr. Molesley nodded drunkenly. Mr. Carson stepped his feet down from the bench and made to stand. Mr. Molesley took an awkward step towards Mr. Carson, holding out the pistol to him with an unsteady hand. Mrs. Hughes' throat tightened as the gun began to drop from his fingers.

The gun hit the hard ground and discharged.

Both men turned towards the house when they heard the breaking of glass and a woman's scream.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N For Tammy333 and Annette-Rose who asked so nicely for more. Yes, I do like cliffhangers; and semicolons. **

Mr. Carson rushed towards the source of the scream. Mrs. Hughes staggered out into the moonlight.

She was unhurt, but very shaken. The electric light less than a foot above her head had shattered.

"Elsie!" His voice cut through her shock. He hadn't used her Christian name since she'd been head housemaid. She began to breathe again. He was standing at arm's length, holding her by both shoulders. His eyes frantically searched her up and down, looking for any injury.

"I'm alright, Mr. Carson." She managed to sound almost normal.

His eyes became fixed on her left cheek. She felt a little tingle there and raised her hand to feel the small patch of wetness. She looked at the small bit of blood on her fingers. Some glass from the shattered bulb must have cut her. Considering what could have happened, she could live with this small scratch. She began to laugh nervously, but stopped when she looked back up into Mr. Carson's face.

She thought she knew his every mood. She thought she'd seen him angry. Now, she realized she had only ever seen him peeved, perturbed or put out.

The expression on his face now was terrible to behold. He must have seen the fear pass over her face for he released her and took a step back before he turned on the hapless Mr. Molesley. The poor fool was trying to pick up the pistol from where it had fallen.

Mrs. Hughes wanted to yell for Mr. Molesley to just stop. Stop moving, stop drawing any attention to yourself.

_Fall down, play dead!_ It was his only hope. _Isn't that what you're supposed to do in a bear attack?_ she thought, wildly.

Mr. Carson closed the space between himself and Mr. Molesley with surprising alacrity for a man his size and age. Mr. Molesley was lifted bodily from the ground where he had fallen to his knee trying to reach the pistol. The bottle he'd been carrying had been dropped when he fell. It was knocked away by one of Mr. Molesley's flailing feet as he was dragged away.

Mr. Carson pushed Mr. Molesley's whole upper body into the rain barrel in the corner of the courtyard. It had rained a few days ago, so the barrel was quite full. After a few seconds, the sputtering Mr. Molesley was brought back to the surface only to be plunged back in immediately. This process was repeated as Mr. Carson growled incoherently between his gritted teeth. He was apoplectic with rage. Mrs. Hughes could only catch the occasional word. "Incompetent... Sodding… Drunk… Irresponsible… Coward… God… Mother… Damn… Bloody… CRICKET!?"

After screaming this last word he plunged Molesley's head further into the barrel than ever. He made a motion to grab the man by the back of his belt and lift his legs up and over to completely invert him in the now foaming rain barrel.

"MR. CARSON!" Mrs. Hughes rushed forward to grab his arm. He responded to her touch by rounding on her with his arm raised as if to slap her with the back of his hand. She stood her ground. His eyes seemed to focus on hers a split second before the blow fell.

She watched as his raw emotions ran across his face. In the flash of an instant, she followed his thoughts from rage to confusion to realization and finally to shame.

His hand fell to his side, leaving her untouched.

He absentmindedly pulled the red-coated, water logged Molesley out of the stagnant water and backed him up against the nearest wall. Mr. Carson's back was to Mrs. Hughes now. She could not see his face. She could just barely hear his words. He spoke slowly, deliberately. It was almost more frightening than the wild rage.

"You live a charmed life, Mr. Molesley. Less than a foot lower and there would have been 3 more deaths today." Mr. Carson brushed reflexively at Mr. Crawley's coat; he tried not to remember the occasions he'd seen Mr. Crawley wearing it. Those memories just reminded him of what had been lost. It reminded him how very much Lady Mary had loved Mr. Crawley.

Her relationship with Mr. Matthew was the first time he'd seen her do anything selfless. She had done kind things, even thoughtful, but never anything that could be called selfless. But it had been different with Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary and Lavinia. Lady Mary had put the feelings of two other people before her own, against Carson's own advice.

His thoughts returned to Mr. Matthew's grieving widow and mother in the house. He fought down another bout of rage as he looked back at Molesley. This man whose main concern seemed to be that he wouldn't be eligible to play on the house cricket team. And in his selfish indulgence, this man had endangered the life of the most important person in Carson's life. Because of Elsie, Charles had been fully prepared to kill this man only moments ago. Elsie was the only reason he had not.

"Take off the coat." He said simply. Mr. Carson thought absently that he'd have a time mending the coat, but that would be his punishment for losing his temper. He would gladly do his proper penance. He turned Molesley around and stripped the coat off his back with no attempt to be gentle.

"Turn back around." Mr. Carson smoothed the coat with his hands and hung it carefully on a bent nail over the rain barrel.

"I meant everything that I said before, Mr. Molesley." He began in a slow, hard voice, leaning in close to the other man's face.

"You were a friend to Mr. Crawley and the family will be loyal to his memory and do right by you.

"However, there will be conditions. Are you prepared to hear those conditions, Mr. Molesley?"

The terrified man nodded frantically, still occasionally coughing up water.

"Firstly," Mr. Carson began in a voice that was a tight, grit-toothed whisper. "So long as you are employed by this family or this estate, you will not touch a drop of alcohol. If I see you with as much as cough tonic, you will be sacked immediately and dismissed without a character."

He was back on familiar ground now. Discipline was something simple he could focus on. His true voice was returning with every syllable. He continued.

"Secondly, so long as you are employed by this family or estate, you will never handle another fire arm. No shotguns, no rifles and, of course, no pistols. If you violate this condition, if I see you with so much as a spent shotgun shell, you will be sacked immediately and dismissed without a character."

Mrs. Hughes could see that Mr. Molesley was not doing very well, but she did not dare interfere. Mr. Carson was obviously holding on to his own sanity by the merest thread.

"Thirdly, if you ever bring any harm to anyone under the protection of this estate, be it thorough intent or negligence, pray that the police find you before I do. If they arrest you, I will see that you face the fullest extent of the law. But if I find you first, I will hold your head in that rain barrel until you stop breathing or you grow gills, whichever comes first."

Mr. Carson pulled back so that his face was no longer mere inches from Mr. Molesley's. It was perfect timing, as Mr. Molesley chose this moment to bend over and vomit violently.

Mr. Carson seemed unimpressed. He simply bent over next to Mr. Molesley as the poor man continued to wretch. Mr. Carson timed his words to communicate his final warning between the retching and coughing.

"And, finally," *groan*

"if you ever" *heave*

"mention bloody cricket" *splat*

"in my presence," *hic*

"I will show you a whole new use for a cricket bat."

With that, Mr. Carson patted Molesley bracingly on the back. "James! Alfred!" he called into the house. They scrambled into the courtyard, practically tripping over one another.

"Mr. Molesley has decided to stay with us. Please see him to his room.

"I suggest you stay there for a few days, Mr. Molesley," he offered with false amiability.

"Make sure he has plenty of water to drink and give him some aspirin when you think it will stay down. Thank you, boys."

He did not wait for their response but turned away as soon as he had dismissed them and walked back to the table where he sat ram rod straight on a corner of the table with his back to them all. He sat looking down at his hands in his lap.

After the footmen had disappeared, dragging the near drowned valet between them, Mrs. Hughes cautiously approached Mr. Carson. She stopped a few steps away from him, testing the water, as it were.

"Mr. Carson?"

He did not turn towards her, but shook his head silently. His words came out in cracked, hollow whispers, "I am so very sorry if I frightened you, Mrs. Hughes." His head dropped a fraction. She took a step towards him.

"I have never lost control of my temper like that. It's just…" She saw his shoulders tense as he clenched his hands into fists in front of him. He shook his head again. She took another small step towards him. She was close enough to touch him now. Standing, she was just a little taller than he was as he sat on the corner of the table.

He continued, haltingly. "That fool…he almost…he could have…" He took a deep, shuddering breath and held it. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and clasped her hands in the middle of his chest, pulling him to her as he exhaled and his shoulders sagged.

He reached up to cover her hands with his own. After pressing them briefly to his chest, he raised them to his lips as he bowed his head. She felt a tear fall onto her hand as he drew her hands away from his lips. He sat silently contemplating her hands in his own.

He did not sob but she felt several more tears fall into her open palms.

After a few more moments, his head came up, his back straightened and he squared his shoulders. His voice was clear. The words came naturally, as truth always does.

"I believe, Mrs. Hughes, that I could face anything or endure anything that this life could devise... except your death.

"I could lose everything, every_one... _I could even let you leave Downton as long as I could know you were happy somewhere in this world."

She held her breath and waited, sensing that he was not yet done speaking.

"Of course, I'd prefer it if that somewhere was here. With me." He concluded simply.

She let his words sink in. Her mouth was just behind his left ear, she felt his hair tickle her lips as she whispered, "And where else in this world could I possibly be happy, _except_ with you, you daft man?"

CE-

**A/N As though I would have hurt Elsie. Why not just burn down Downton Abbey?  
**

**I wasn't planning on moving them along this quickly, but they demanded it. I don't know how Julian Fellowes resists these two.  
**

**TBC- VERY Chelsie.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N Thanks for the love and for reading. This one is a little long, but there was a lot to say (not say).**

She waited for him to respond. This wasn't exactly how she had envisioned them professing their feelings, but now that it had happened, the how and why didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was, she was holding him and he was letting her. She knew that was finally a reality. She knew or cared for little else.

She always imagined that she would have to be the one to speak first. She'd never imagined a scenario where he confessed his love and it was only left for her to accept it and return it.

But he hadn't really said The Words, had he? He'd confessed..._what had he confessed?_ That he was willing to let her leave Downton if it would make her happy? Was that supposed to make her feel better? And he hadn't even looked her in the eye yet. He could still try to shrug it off later. Fear gripped her heart and her pulse began to race.

_Stop thinking, Elsie. The night is still young. _She remembered something he'd said only a few days ago._ Well, it's not old. _

She longed to see his face, longed to read his mood that she might know how she could reassure him of her affection and be reassured of his.

After almost a full minute, he stood and turned slowly to face her. She was forced to release him, but kept her hands up, touching his chest after he had turned. She held her breath yet again. Why could she never breathe naturally around this man?

Wordlessly, he guided her to sit on the bench that was pressing against her knee. Her hands fell into her lap.

She watched patiently as he walked to the far side of the courtyard; back to the rain barrel. He took a handful of water and splashed his face, rubbing it with both hands then running those hands back through his hair; water soaking the front of his shirt and his waistcoat. This seemed to rejuvenate him a bit.

As he was walking back to her, he stooped to pick something up in the middle of the courtyard. She saw that it was the near empty bottle of alcohol. She could see now that it was gin; the cheap kind that her mother had warned her about.

She was tempted to ask him what he was thinking; she had a very fine Brandy in the bottom drawer of her desk if he needed a drink. She thought she could do with a drink herself. But there was a spell over the courtyard that she could not bring herself to break. They were somehow beyond speech. She was afraid any sound would spook him, like a skittish animal. She remained seated in silence watching his measured movements.

He took his handkerchief from his pants pocket. He poured some of the gin onto the handkerchief. When he reached her, he set the bottle on the table next to her shoulder and sat himself down next to her. He took her chin gently in his left hand and lifted her face up, angled slightly away from him as he raised the alcohol soaked cotton cloth to the minute cut on her cheek.

She watched him with a sidelong glance as he gently wiped the dried blood off her cheek. The alcohol stung her briefly, but she did not flinch. When he was satisfied with the result he brought her chin back front and center. He gave her a weary look. There was a deep sadness there. She understood that tonight had almost been too much for him.

_If that bullet had been even a foot lower_... she shuddered imperceptibly. She could be dead. Charles would have killed Mr. Molesley; she had no doubt of this. Then Charles would have hung, if he had lasted that long. 3 more lives destroyed.

But there was something else in his eyes; not just grief; not just helplessness. There was a promise in his look. A look of deep devotion that had always been there. His loyalty to duty was so familiar and dear to her. And now, he had admitted that all of this meant nothing to him if anything were to happen to her.

He was laying his devotion at her feet. It was hers first and foremost, before King, before country; before Downton, even. He was _her_ Charles Carson. He wanted her to know that he would always take care of her. Cleansing her cheek with cheap gin was the only way his traumatized mind could think to show her. For now, for him, there were no words.

She understood and she silently returned his promise with her eyes as she smiled up at him. She reached to take the handkerchief from his hand. The nick on his chin was small and had clotted quickly, but there was a small trail of blood down his neck. Her eyes followed the progress of a single drop of water as it ran from an unruly lock of his hair down the side of his beautiful face and neck and down beyond his damp and disheveled collar. She took the bottle of gin from the table and wet the handkerchief again.

He winced slightly as she dabbed the alcohol soaked handkerchief on the cut on his chin.

When the cut was clean, she worked her way down his neck, forcing her fingers to stop at his collar. There were still globs of shaving cream lather around his ears and under his chin, but there was only so much she could do with that little handkerchief. She folded the soft, wet cotton square into a tiny triangle and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. She then returned her gaze to his; their ritual complete. All the anger and fear around them had dissipated into the night like the fumes of cheap alcohol. Now there was just this lingering sadness to banish.

Both her hands were now resting on his face.

She knew how he felt; had known for years. He had been a little slower on the uptake, she thought, but on some level, he knew.

Not that those feelings had ever became action. They'd both dreamed of their retirement together, only forgetting the minor step of discussing it with each other. Some how, planning to live together in their golden years was appropriate. Speaking of it was not. Thank goodness times were changing. Could he finally change with them, she wondered? For the first time, she truly believed it was possible that he could; believed it rather than just hoped it.

She smiled at him, testing his mood. The right hand corner of his mouth twitched and his right eye squinted a bit. She recognized this as his attempt at a smile.

"You were quite a sight, Mr. Carson;" she began cautiously, "half shaven, your hair run amok, blood on your chin and foam all over your face." Her fingers caressed his face absently while she spoke.

His mouth twitched again.

"I believe," she continued, more boldly now, "we are very lucky that poor Mr. Molesley only _vomited_. I was quite worried that he might soil himself.

"I don't envy Alfred and Jimmy. Or Mr. Molesley; he will be having quite vivid nightmares for a few days to go with that headache." She smiled more openly now; hoping that he would join the teasing. Willing him to chase the sadness away with her.

She tried again, "And that will certainly teach me not to eavesdrop." At this comment, his brow knit in painful remembrance and his grip on her arm tightened.

"It's okay, Charles,_ I'm_ okay. I'm not going anywhere." she whisper was so low she almost couldn't hear herself.

His features shifted again and he seemed to be carefully considering something. This seemed like progress. She waited. When he began to speak, his words were hesitant.

"Just for the record, Mrs. Hughes," he offered, "I am not entirely sure, that Mr. Molesley did _not_ soil himself."

Now he did smile; broadly, almost stupidly. She gaped up at him in wonder. It was at once so like him and so unlike him. She brought her hands to her own face, trying to contain the sudden, hysterical laughter.

He gathered her to him as their tension released itself in their shared laughter. It rose in intensity until they sounded quite mad. They clung to each other, gasping for air between the laughter.

How long this hysteria lasted, neither of them could ever say, but ,slowly, they began to recover their senses.

As the laughter softened into breathless chuckling and the hiccups subsided, he drew her closer. He touched his forehead lightly to hers while smiling deeply at her.

"I love you, Elsie Hughes."

He teased her nose briefly with his own before leaning down to kiss her mouth as it rose to meet his.

_Now they were together, the way they always should have been, s_he thought.

Finally, they were together, the way they always _had_ been.

CE-

It was not a gasping, passionate kiss. Neither of them was made breathless. Quite the opposite. Their breathing was rhythmic and synchronized. As she breathed out, he breathed in. As she breathed in, he breathed out. And with each exchange of breath, they drew strength and comfort from each other. Each breath made them bolder and more confident. There was no more fatigue. The day's sorrows were momentarily forgotten.

As Charles breathed her in, _his Elsie_, his hands caressed all the feminine contours of her body that she had forgotten she had. His fingers reminded her.

As Elsie breathed him in, _her Charles_, she filled the fingers of one hand with his hair and traced the outline of his ear and jaw with the fingertips of the other. Minutes passed, each moment bringing a new sensation; a new taste of her; a new thrill under the pressure of his hands.

She'd always heard desire described like a fire; something that burned, consumed and destroyed. There had been times when her feelings for him had seemed destructive, even painful. But this embrace was like rain falling on a parched and thirsty land, bringing life and hope and joy.

Her fingers had left his hair and were now tracing his moist collar. They brushed lightly across a scratchy patch of stubble on his cheek, bringing her mind back to the reality of the past few hours. Reminding her of the obligations of the next few days.

Reluctantly, Elsie pulled away from him. Charles followed, leaning over her slightly. Even more reluctantly, she pushed him gently away. He obeyed her touch.

Now that they were separated, her breathing became irregular. She longed to lean in and catch her breath from his mouth, but one of them must keep their head, for now. She placed one gentle finger under his lips, he crinkled his nose in an exaggerated expression that showed her that he knew she'd found his weak spot.

"I love you too, Charles Carson.

"And as much as I would love to continue this..." she searched for the perfect word, but it did not come so she said simply, ".._.this,_" gesturing in a general way that took in the whole situation.

"It might still be possible for each of us to get a bit of sleep before breakfast and be functional for the rest of the day."

"Alas, Elsie, you are as pragmatic as you are beautiful." His hand reluctantly left her waist and covered her hand on his still rough cheek.

"And I believe we've a little matter of a shave to finish." He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

She was worried that he seemed much more interested in the shave than the sleep, though she expected his fatigue would return and she did not expect him to be awake for long once he was back in his armchair. It was no matter if he did doze off again. She knew there would be other shaves. And she would never again need an excuse to touch him.

"Shall we?" she asked him.

He nodded so her finger tickled him again. He took a deep breath and looked around the courtyard, as though committing the moment to memory; the position of the stars, the angle of the moonlight. He caught sight of the gun where it lay forgotten. A shadow passed over his face. He kissed her finger tip before he rose and walked over to the tiny, deadly object. With one fluid movement, he lifted the gun as he disengaged the cylinder and emptied the remaining bullets into his hand.

He placed the bullets in his waistcoat pocket with their handkerchief.

He stooped again. She could not see what he'd found until he brought it back for her inspection. It was the empty shell of the bullet that could have ended both their lives.

She took the casing, stood up, turned and threw it over the courtyard wall.

"We'll not think of what might have been, Charles. Only of what will be." She laced the fingers of both her small hands through those of his large left hand and began to lead him back into the house. He hesitated just before they reached the backdoor. She turned back to him.

"But there is something that I regret, Mrs. Hughes."

"What's that, Mr. Carson?" She looked up at him expectantly; matching his use of their more formal mode of address.

"I have missed a rare opportunity to say something that badly needs to be said."

There was something in the way he spoke. She very much suspected that he was teasing her. What more could he need to say to her? And how had he missed the opportunity? She was still right here.

His eyes sparkled as he cocked an eyebrow conspiratorially at her. His grin was childlike and pure.

"I _really_ should have told Mr. Molesley that he's rubbish at cricket."

**A/N Not much longer now...I promise this story will wrap by the weekend. Happy belated Canada day. Happy 4th of July.**


	11. Chapter 11

Mrs. Hughes had managed 2 solid hours of sleep; glorious sleep full of blissful dreams and warm thoughts. It was the most restful night she could remember. Though she was refreshed, the needs of the day ahead of her loomed large. She quickly pinned her hair, hardly sparing a glance for herself in the glass before leaving her room. Descending the stairs, she had the step of a woman half her age.

The downstairs was abuzz with the strange events of the early morning. Mrs. Hughes would have to set the record straight before the rumor mill got in full swing. Meaning, before Miss O'Brien started spreading her own version of things.

Mrs. Hughes had already overheard Alfred telling Daisy and Ivy that he was lucky to be alive. It might be true, but still, he must have faced much worse in the war. Why it was more impressive to have faced a drunken valet than it was to have faced the German army, she could not fathom. Still, she marveled at the gall of that boy; openly flirting with both girls at once. Maybe they should look into getting him an apprenticeship as a cook sooner rather than later. She sensed trouble brewing in that quarter. Daisy and Ivy seemed fast friends now, but love, like human nature, was a funny business.

She ticked through her mental list of loose ends. The gun was locked in Mr. Carson's bottom desk drawer. The bullets were in the top drawer. Mr. Crawley's Uniform Dinner Jacket was drying in her sitting room.n Mr. Molesley was drying in his room.

She thought now of Charles, as she'd left him dozing lightly in the armchair in his pantry. She had completed the shave that had been so rudely interrupted, albeit with a bit more lather and a lot more touching than was absolutely necessary. Eventually, exhaustion had claimed him. She had debated whether or not to wake him with a kiss and a splash of aftershave or to let him sleep until he was absolutely needed. She'd decided to let him sleep. She knew he would wake naturally when the bells started to ring for the breakfast trays. She had tucked the apron in around him before leaving the pantry. She hoped his dreams had been as pleasant as her own.

Lady Edith was already up. But instead of ringing, she'd dressed herself and had come down well before breakfast to find Mrs. Hughes. She looked as though she hadn't slept a wink. Mrs. Hughes was trying to convince her that everything was well in hand.

"I'm afraid I feel terribly useless, Mrs. Hughes. Neither Mary nor Cousin Isobel are likely to be comforted by my presence. Mama and Gran will, no doubt be with them. What am I expected to do all day? Please give me some employment."

"But you are a great support to your mother and the Dowager, and you might find you are more of a comfort to Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley than you know. Not all support is direct, m'lady. In fact, some of the most affective assistance is the help no one ever realizes they received."

Edith nodded at this, but didn't look convinced.

"Also, if I may be so bold; I think Mr. Branson might be in need of company as well. Your father is unlikely to leave his room today. Mr. Branson cannot possibly visit Mrs. Crawley or Lady Mary in their rooms, so he'll be quite alone. It would lift a weight from my mind if you were to look out after him over the next few days."

Edith grasped Mrs. Hughes hand gratefully. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I know I'm not anyone's particular favorite, but you've always been very kind to me."

"Well, you _were_ a bit of a handful as a child, though I dare say that was as much Lady Mary's doing as yours. But even you must admit that you were capable of being downright nasty as a teenager." Here, Mrs. Hughes squeezed Edith's hand and smiled kindly at her to take any sting out of her words.

"But I must say you've become quite an asset to this family, my lady. And, I do believe if the Dowager were forced to pick a favorite, it would be you. She has always quite admired your wit. She may have also enjoyed your mischievous streak more than the rest of us. Kindred spirits and all that."

Edith's mouth pursed and twisted into a wry smile that greatly reminded Mrs. Hughes of a certain, cane-wielding Countess.

The door of the butler's pantry swung inward. Mr. Carson stepped through the doorway, fully dressed, slapping his face briskly. Judging by the smell, he was currently applying a week's worth of aftershave to his face. He looked well rested. Indeed, he looked better than Mrs. Hughes had seen him since before the war. Though, she was, admittedly, now seeing him with different eyes.

"I believe you've missed your true calling, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Carson beamed at her. His voice boomed loudly so he could be heard in the servant's hall and in the kitchen and, she suspected, upstairs.

"You are an excellent house keeper and we are lucky to have you, but you could have made a fortune as a barber."

"Do you think so, Mr. Carson?" she smiled.

"Indeed, Mrs. Hughes, if you opened a barber shop there wouldn't be a beard for 40 miles around."

She and Lady Edith laughed at this. Just now noticing Edith, standing there holding Mrs. Hughes hand, Carson snapped to attention.

_Old habits_, Edith thought. It still made her a little sad to know that as much as she might enjoy their company and attention, these good people were never wholly themselves around her.

"Lady Edith! Is there something we can do for you? I apologize for the levity. We are all absolutely devastated over Mr. Crawley. Please don't think for one moment…"

"Of course, Carson, think nothing of it. In times of sadness, we must find solace in the little things. Father has often said nothing invigorates like a good shave."

"Well said, m'lady." Mrs. Hughes squeezed her hand again. Then she whispered softly, "But don't get so caught up in supporting others that you don't allow yourself time to grieve."

"Oh, there's plenty of time for that. Thank you, again, Mrs. Hughes." Edith turned to climb the stairs up to the family rooms wondering who needed her more, Mama, Gran or Tom. Gran was the one most likely to awake at this hour, so Edith decided to head towards the Dowager's rooms. Was she really Gran's favorite, she wondered?

Before she left, however, Edith did have a bit of mischief to play. She leaned down and whispered so only Mrs. Hughes could hear her.

"And Mrs. Hughes, you've a bit of shaving cream behind your ear."

CE-

"What was all that about, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Nothing." Mrs. Hughes turned back to him, distractedly rubbing neck at a point just behind her jaw. It made Mr. Carson remember something from a pleasant dream of his. Though, he wasn't entirely sure it had been a dream. Was she blushing? Or did their new understanding just make her glow all the more in his eyes? Regardless, her cheeks were pink and she looked rosy and young. He had to remind himself that it was working hours and they were not alone. Nor were they likely to be for the rest of the day. He resigned himself to this as he waited for her to continue.

"Lady Edith was just looking for a way to be useful." Mrs. Hughes was quite recovered now.

"She really has grown into a very intelligent and thoughtful woman, Mr. Carson."

"She always was _intelligent_." Mr. Carson reminded her, his earlier joviality slipping slightly. "You can't cause that much trouble without a fair deal of intelligence. But, some pranks are just a step too far." Of course, Mrs. Hughes didn't know about the letter to the Turkish ambassador. It wasn't his place to expose her but Carson wasn't sure he could ever fully forgive Lady Edith. Her mischief had almost resulted in a forced marriage for Lady Mary and a life at Haxby, _away from Elsie_, for Mr. Carson.

"She was just a girl, Mr. Carson." Mrs. Hughes thought she knew the particular prank to which Mr. Carson was referring . "And your eyebrows did grow back, just as magnificent as ever."

He smiled reluctantly.

"How long does this last, Mrs. Hughes? How long will I find it impossible to disagree with you?" his voice was now low and private.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Carson, but I suspect it will be something in the neighborhood of the rest of our lives. Which is good for you. You were never very good at disagreeing with me." She lay the brogue on thickly, knowing it would please him.

"I guess I'll need to find a new hobby," he teased back. He bobbed his eyebrows twice and smiled broadly at her before heading into the servant's hall.

"Magnificent, hmm?" she heard him mutter to himself under his breath.

_Daft man._

**A/N 2 more chapters...**


	12. Chapter 12

Lady Edith was taking breakfast with Lady Violet and Mrs. Crawley. Lady Grantham was with Mary. His Lordship was refusing anything but coffee. So breakfast was prepared for only Mr. Branson and Dr. Clarkson, who had been persuaded to spend the night. The hospital had called the doctor away early and he had barely stopped through to grab some toast and coffee. He promised to come back in the afternoon to check on "the patient."

Mr. Carson wasn't quite sure who that meant, but he could venture a guess.

While he could have sent Thomas, or even James (a footman would have been fine enough for Mr. Branson), Mr. Carson decided to wait on Mr. Branson himself in hopes of expressing his sympathies more fully. Mrs. Hughes was right; the business with Edna was not caused primarily by Mr. Branson. It had been caused by Tom's deep sadness and vulnerably; and a rather forward maid.

Mr. Carson had actually started to warm back up to the boy after Lady Sybil's death, but he did still have that sense of being made a fool of that put his hackles up and often made him lash out without considering the harm his words could do. Carson knew that he deserved the accusation of rudeness that Mrs. Hughes had leveled at him.

Mr. Carson was perceptive enough to see that Mr. Branson craved his approval. Perhaps that was the reason why it was so tempting to withhold it.

He resolved that this morning, he would take the first steps towards a less antagonistic relationship with Mr. Branson. They'd managed to get past Tom's (rather pungent) attempt at a political statement. They could surely see their way past the blurring of the line between family and staff. It probably seemed a very minor breach to the younger man.

Mr. Branson was currently the sole hope for Downton's future prosperity. Even Mr. Carson could see that the estate must adapt or it would fail. As long as the house's standards were maintained, Mr. Carson cared little for the adjustments on the estate. He only hoped that, when the time came, there would be a little cottage for his retirement.

Mr. Carson told himself that he must make peace with Mr. Branson for the good of Downton. It didn't hurt that he actually quite liked the boy. And, it really didn't hurt that he adored baby Sybbie.

CE-

"Good Morning, Sir." Mr. Carson tried to say the 'sir' with less sarcasm than usual and was pleasantly surprised that he had succeeded. Not that it was noticed.

Mr. Branson absently filled his plate and sat down. He looked lost and small sitting at the large table that was empty, but for him. The whiteness of the tablecloth was near blinding this morning as he rearranged the eggs on his plate yet again. Tom had really just wanted to grab a fry-up at the pub, but felt he must carry on with his expected schedule. Perhaps he would take breakfast at the pub tomorrow, and until someone else from the family was able to join him for breakfast. He would ask Mrs. Hughes for her advice later in the morning.

The familiar throat clear from the butler stirred Tom from his thoughts and he unconsciously sat up straighter in his chair.

"Is there something you would like to say, Mr. Carson?"

"If I may, sir, I wanted to compliment you on the efficiency of the work you did at the accident scene yesterday."

Tom looked up at the stodgy butler with wide eyes. Mr. Carson continued.

"The damage was almost unnoticeable when I passed it last night. I am sure neither Lady Mary nor Mrs. Crawley can have seen it at all. It must have been a very difficult thing for you to do, considering your very close friendship with Mr. Crawley."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. It was."

"I've taken the liberty of marking the spot with a small cross. We can consider a more permanent memorial after the funeral."

Tom nodded absently. "That was very good of you, Mr. Carson."

The silence ticked on. Tom managed to finish a slice of toast. The rest of the food was forgotten. Carson was used to silences, comfortable and otherwise, but he felt the need to break this one. He coughed again.

Tom merely raised his eyes to Mr. Carson and tilted his head. It was all the permission Carson required to continue.

"Things will, of course, be more difficult without Mr. Crawley, on many levels. But I know you and he had a clear vision for Downton and that has not changed. I wanted you to know that _the staff_ has every confidence in your ability to fulfill that vision, even without Mr. Crawley's aid. Be assured, we are on your side, Mr. Branson."

Tom didn't know what to say. When Mr. Carson said 'the staff', everyone knew it meant Mr. Carson himself.

It shocked Tom that he still had tears left to cry as he felt his eyes fill and saw the world go watery. He thought he'd cried all he could over the past 2 days. He was wrong.

_Well, that didn't go to plan_, Mr. Carson thought. _I didn't want to make the poor boy cry._

Tom was still embarrassed about the business with Edna, though more recent events had made it seem less important. Tom was desperately lonely, but there had been no substance to his flirtations with Edna. It had all just been the grateful return of attention for attention.

How much lonelier would he be now that Matthew was gone? Tom was still holding back the tears, but his face was starting to contort in the effort.

Mr. Carson thought now was the time to beat a hasty retreat. But he still felt he should offer at least one more word of comfort. Seeing him at the empty table, Carson had an idea.

"Perhaps, Mr. Branson, you would like to dine with us below stairs until the rest of the family returns to a more predictable routine? For breakfast and lunch at the very least?" The response was immediate.

_Oh, god. That's done it._ Carson thought. Mr. Branson had begun to cry in earnest.

Mr. Carson was lost enough when it was a woman crying, but he had no reference for this. He couldn't just leave the man sitting there blowing his nose into the linen napkin, could he? He knew His Lordship had cried on at least two occasions, Lady Cora's miscarriage and Lady Sybil's death. But he had not _seen_ it. This was very different.

Maybe it was this generation. Mr. Crawley had also seemed prone to tearing up a lot, but Mr. Branson was full on sobbing.

Mr. Carson found an extremely interesting dust mote on the window at which to stare.

CE-

How could Tom make him understand? This kindness, this acceptance, _from Mr. Carson! _meant so much to him.

Tom had come to Downton almost directly from Dublin, after a brief stop in Liverpool. He was coming from a place where people actually starved to death from poverty; from a city where living conditions were so filthy that diseases could not be stopped. He was coming from a household comprised of so many cousins and relations under one roof you never had anything that was your own. It was a house of chaos where the younger children could go without shoes for a month before anyone noticed they'd grown out of the old ones.

His parents had worked hard to give good educations to the more promising children and find professions for the less promising. He'd been able to attend lectures at Trinity some nights while working in the bike shop that would become his uncle's garage. But it had not been easy and he'd faced more ridicule at home than he'd received support.

When he'd walked into Downton he was immediately given a cottage of his own, 2 cars to work on in a well appointed garage and autonomy. He had found himself in an orderly world where he was expected to meet certain standards. Not only would they notice if he his shoes didn't fit, they would notice if the shoes were not properly buffed or if the laces were worn.

He'd come into a world where success could actually be achieved, not just dreamed of. And they'd given him every opportunity to succeed.

As much as he had come to love his Sybil, it was the acceptance and attention he'd found downstairs at Downton that he'd loved first. After so much uncertainty in his life, he loved the sureness of their routine. He'd appreciated the attention of a kind and loving housekeeper. He'd craved, earned and betrayed the trust of a man who embodied the very notion of respect. Did he now have a chance to regain that esteem?

To truly belong at Downton, you needed the approval of 1 person upstairs and 2 people downstairs.

Tom knew he'd won over Lady Violet, despite her insistence on calling him Branson.

Mrs. Hughes acceptance was freely given and could not be earned, only lost. He was sure he had not lost it.

If he'd finally earned Mr. Carson's forgiveness for stealing away Lady Sybil, he felt he could accomplish anything for this family. And maybe he could truly begin to build a new life here for himself and Her daughter. Until now, he'd only been surviving; leaning on Matthew and Mary and Sybbie. Maybe it was possible for him to actually live. Yes, he decided. He _would_ be his own master and call his own tune. And he would make them all proud.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I believe everything just caught up to me at once." he wiped his nose again and rose from the table.

"I'm going to the nursery to see Sybbie. And, thank you, I would very much like to join the staff for luncheon."

Mr. Carson tore his attention away from the intensely interesting dust mote.

"Very well, Mr. Branson, I shall inform Mrs. Hughes." As he began to clear Mr. Branson's plate, he smiled at the thought of telling her. Unless he was very much mistaken, she would be most pleased with him. Truth be told, he was most pleased with himself. But he was certainly glad that was over with.

**A/N Only one more chapter. Thanks for sticking with me. Your support has been amazing.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N Wrapping things up for now. Thought we needed just a little more of the Chelsie (and a bit of Carbbie).  
**

The rest of the day passed without much incident. Mrs. Hughes had been called up to the Dowager's rooms and remained there most of the day. Mr. Carson only saw her fleetingly; at lunch, tea and dinner before she was called back upstairs.

Anna was upstairs most of the day with Lady Mary, but when she came down to exchange the breakfast tray for the lunch tray, she sought out Mr. Carson and asked for a moment of his time.

They sat at the table in the otherwise deserted servant's hall while Anna took some much needed refreshment while she waited for the trays.

"Lady Mary wanted me to make sure you were not overworking yourself today, Mr. Carson. And she wants you to know how very much you helped her yesterday."

"How is she?"

"Much as you'd expect. I think she is still just numb. She didn't sleep much last night, but she's resting now."

"Please let me know if there is anything else we can do. And, Anna, be sure you don't get overtired. I wish there was someone who could share this burden with you, but there is no one else."

"You have my permission to use the bed in Mr. Crawley's dressing room. It's still made up. It will make it easier for you to catch some sleep for yourself. You sleep when she sleeps. We'll get one of the other girls to handle the trays. Just ring."

She was touched by his concern. Anna knew some of the younger staff were terrified of this man; as she had been when she first came to Downton. But for every public dressing down she'd seen him give, she'd witnessed even more private moments where he displayed boundless patience and support. She wondered if the rumors about Mr. Molesley were true.

She knew that Mr. Carson cared for every soul in this house, upstairs and down; even Thomas and O'Brien. He cared because it was his job. He cared because it was simply who he was.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. That will help tremendously." They sat in silence as he let her finish eating the sandwich Mrs. Patmore had given her. When she was done, he spoke again.

"Have you spoken to Mr. Bates?"

"Briefly. He came to inquire after Lady Mary on his lordship's behalf. But I'm afraid Lady Mary is none too pleased with his lordship just now."

They both nodded, knowingly. "And how is his lordship?"

"I didn't think to ask." Mr. Carson raised his eyebrows at her answer. Apparently, Lady Mary wasn't the only one who was unhappy with his lordship.

Daisy came bustling in from the kitchen. "Lunch tray's ready now."

"Thank you, Daisy." Mr. Carson rose to take the tray. "Let me carry this up for you, Anna. I am headed that direction myself, as I would like to speak to Mr. Bates."

CE-

All the staff, save Anna and Mr. Bates were assembled for lunch. Mr. Carson had finished explaining the incident with Mr. Molesley and made it clear that that was the end of the topic. They were all to be very civil to Mr. Molesley and be mindful that he was particularly affected by the death of Mr. Crawley.

Mr. Carson gave Mrs. O'Brien a withering look as he bid everyone start their meal. She nodded and dropped her eyes. It was times like this that she wished she and Thomas had not gotten on the wrong side of each other. She was not satisfied with Mr. Carson's version of events. It was all highly suspicious.

Tom had joined them for lunch; Mr. Carson earning a loving tap on the knee under the table for that. Later, he had surprised them at tea with a visit from Miss Sybbie herself.

Of course, Mr. Carson kept her all to himself. To be fair, whenever she was handed off to anyone but Carson, Sybbie would cry until she was restored to him.

"It's the eyebrows," he teased Mr. Branson when even her father's embrace was judged inferior to that of Mr. Carson. "I'm told they are magnificent."

CE-

It was an early night for most of the house. Mrs. Patmore had outdone herself and had produced the equivalent of 4 separate meals, each with their own timing issues. Mr. Carson would have to do something nice for her and for Daisy. Perhaps a nice sherry for Mrs. Patmore and some extra time off for Daisy. He'd ask Mrs. Hughes what she thought best.

So it was that the exhausted household was fed and off to bed by 9 o'clock that night, the strange eating arrangements allowing the staff to eat at 8. They were a reduced number at dinner, with Anna and Mr. Bates upstairs and Thomas and Molesley both eating in their rooms.

There would be a funeral feast to plan and prepare and then the christening. Come joy or sorrow, people still demanded to be fed. But that could all be put off until tomorrow.

A combination of adrenaline, momentum, training and tea had seen Mr. Carson finally to the end of the day. He rubbed his eyes as he closed the ledger in front of him. Life certainly had a way of balancing its own ledgers, he mused darkly. Rarely, however, did it do so with the ruthless efficiency that had been visited on this household.

Not for the first time, this house had welcomed a child and lost a parent in the span of mere hours. A life for a life. Net gain of zero. The ledgers remained balanced.

He wanted to talk to Mrs. Hughes, he wanted to renew the sentiments from earlier this morning. He wanted to talk to her about the future. _About us. _He thought warmly. But mostly, he just wanted to hold her and feel her strength.

If they were to talk tonight, it would have to be over very strong coffee. A brandy or wine would do him in completely. He was contemplating brewing a pot of coffee when her knock came at the door and she let herself in. She carried a tray with two cups of coffee. He knew one would have one lump of sugar and just a splash of cream; for her, and one would have 3 lumps of sugar and no milk; for him.

His hand came up involuntarily to stroke his chin. While he'd been mostly asleep through the process it was still the best part of his day. Well, except for the few moments they'd allowed themselves in the courtyard after dealing with Molesley.

From the smile on her face, he knew she was thinking the exact same thoughts.

He made to rise, but found his legs were not going to cooperate. They knew they had exactly 45 stairs worth of energy left; just enough to get him to the attics and his room. Soon, but not until he spent some time with her.

She seemed to understand and walked around his desk to where he was sitting. He pushed the chair out from under the desk and drew her into his lap after she'd set the tray on the desk in front of him.

She caressed his still smooth cheek with her thumb as her fingers disappeared into the hair behind his ear. One of his hands settled in the small of her back, holding her securely on his lap while the other rested lightly on her knee.

They'd never been this unapologetically intimate before, but it felt immediately natural. Neither of them blushed (oh, there would be time for that) and neither felt at all self-conscious seeing the obvious adoration in the others' eyes. On some level, they'd both always known. They'd both been content to wait. Well, maybe not _exactly_ content, but they'd made their decisions and they could both live with those decisions.

She looked him full in the face. Her smile was weary, but playful. "You did good work today, Mr. Carson."

"And you as well, Mrs. Hughes. Do you know, I think we make a pretty good team?" he volleyed back.

"Are you just now realizing that? I've known that for years." _Point to Hughes._

"So," she pressed her advantage, "do you still think I should retire and open a barber shop?"

"I've rethought that scheme, Mrs. Hughes," he said with the mock seriousness that only she could recognize. "I am not keen on the idea of you touching the faces of all and sundry. I think I might have to retain you as Downton's personal barber."

"Oh? But do you think you can afford me, Mr. Carson?"

"I can at least keep you in the manner to which you've become accustomed."

_Uh, oh_, she thought, _he's acting awfully smug._

"And how will you do that?" she asked warily.

"There should be some money in the house budget. Rumor has it there is going to be a vacancy."

"Please say Miss O'Brien is leaving." That almost got him, but he recovered.

"Unfortunately no. But, it is said the housekeeper is getting married." It was her turn to stumble. But she recovered quickly. She was not going to lose this round without a fight.

"Are you sure? That seems rather sudden."

"Pretty sure. But, perhaps, you would know best."

She'd been so engrossed in drinking in his face, watching his eyes dance as they tried to outwit each other, that she had not noticed when he removed his hand from her knee and reached into his waistcoat pocket. Now she looked down at a perfect silver circle. There was a tiny crest on the ring that looked vaguely familiar.

"It was my mother's," he said, slipping it onto her finger which she had unconsciously offered him after dropping her hand from his hair. "Whether your answer is yes or no, whether you want to marry tomorrow or in ten years, I'd like you to accept it and wear it now."

_Game. Set and Match._

"Well played, my love." She whispered and leaned in, smiling against his own smiling lips. Maybe she didn't mind letting him win every once in while.

CE-

Over the next few months, Charles and Elsie continued to enjoy exploring their new found intimacy. Every stolen kiss still held the thrill and newness of their first. Their evenings over wine or tea sometimes became impromptu moonlit walks through the gardens. They felt as though they were the lord and lady of Downton. They were not in any hurry. It had never been about lust for them. If it had been, they'd have destroyed each others' lives years ago.

No, their Love was about companionship, about belonging. It was about knowing fully, even as you are known.

The house and family needed the stability that they provided; the two of them together. Their plans could wait until the house was out of mourning. But she wore his ring openly.

Charles was confident that they'd both be allowed to stay on, but there were some doubts in the back of his mind and he'd voiced them to Elsie. She didn't seem to be worried.

"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it, Charles."

"I never know if those expressions come from your Scottish heritage or from spending too much time with Mrs. Patmore." He'd teased her.

She'd simply smiled and kissed him on the soft spot just below his lips, which had made all other discussion moot.

CE-

For the rest of the house, the early months of mourning passed uneventfully. Each day was very like the day before and the day after that. Slowly, people began to laugh again; wounds began to scar and heal.

Routine has that effect. There is a reason people take comfort in the rising sun. There is a cold comfort in the immutable. It never fails to put things into perspective.

The routine of a great household was like the rising and setting of the sun. At Downton Abbey, grief had simply become part of that routine; but so had their Love.

-THE END-

**A/N Whew. I can get some sleep now. You guys have been awesome to a first timer****. Thank you for all the follows, favorites and reviews. ****I'm very bad about replying to reviews, but they have been very much appreciated. ****It's humbling to hear from authors I have enjoyed reading and from people who obviously love these two as much as I do. I will go down with this ship.  
**

** I am ending here because I envision that this story could actually exist without offending canon too much. **

**For those of you who asked for more, be careful what you wish for... ****There will be a follow up to this (after a fluff piece or two), but it will be VERY AU, exploring how the family reacts to this relationship and stepping on the toes of series 4. I hope you will join me to find out what happens. Hint, "the course of true love never did run smooth."  
**

**And finally, thank you to Julian Fellowes, Phyllis Logan and Jim Carter for creating and embodying these beautiful souls. **


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